The softest whisperings of the scented South,And rust and roses in the cannon's mouth;
And, where the thunders of the fight were born,The wind's sweet tenor in the standing corn;
With song of larks, low-lingering in the loam,And blue skies bending over love and home.
But still the thought: Somewhere,—upon the hills,Or where the vales ring with the whip-poor-wills,
Sad wistful eyes and broken hearts that beatFor the loved sound of unreturning feet,
And, when the oaks their leafy banners wave,Dream of the battle and an unmarked grave!
* * * * *
Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,And fiery hearts and armèd handsEncountered in the battle-cloud.
Ah! never shall the land forgetHow gushed the life-blood of her brave,—Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,Upon the soil they fought to save.
Now all is calm and fresh and still;Alone the chirp of flitting bird,And talk of children on the hill,And bell of wandering kine, are heard.
No solemn host goes trailing byThe black-mouthed gun and staggering wain;Men start not at the battle-cry,—O, be it never heard again!
Soon rested those who fought; but thouWho minglest in the harder strifeFor truths which men receive not now,Thy warfare only ends with life.
A friendless warfare! lingering longThrough weary day and weary year;A wild and many-weaponed throngHang on thy front and flank and rear.
Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,And blench not at thy chosen lot;The timid good may stand aloof,The sage may frown,—yet faint thou not.
Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;For with thy side shall dwell, at last,The victory of endurance born.
Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again,—The eternal years of God are hers;But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,And dies among his worshippers.
Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,When they who helped thee flee in fear,Die full of hope and manly trust,Like those who fell in battle here!
Another hand thy sword shall wield,Another hand the standard wave,Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealedThe blast of triumph o'er thy grave.
* * * * *
How sleep the brave who sink to restBy all their country's wishes blest!When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,Returns to deck their hallowed mould,She there shall dress a sweeter sodThan Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rungBy forms unseen their dirge is sung;There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,To bless the turf that wraps their clay;And Freedom shall awhile repair,To dwell a weeping hermit there!
* * * * *
The angel of the nation's peaceHas wreathed with flowers the battle-drum;We see the fruiting fields increaseWhere sound of war no more shall come.
The swallow skims the Tennessee,Soft winds play o'er the Rapidan;There only echo notes of glee,Where gleamed a mighty army's van!
Fair Chattanooga's wooded slopeWith summer airs is lightly stirred,And many a heart is warm with hopeWhere once the deep-mouthed gun was heard.
The blue Potomac stainless rolls,And Mission Ridge is gemmed with fern;On many a height sleep gallant souls,And still the blooming years return.
Thank God! unseen to outward eye,But felt in every freeman's breast,From graves where fallen comrades lieAscends at Nature's wise behest,
With springing grass and blossoms new,A prayer to bless the nation's life,To freedom's flower give brighter hue,And hide the awful stains of strife.
O, Boys in Blue, we turn to you,The scarred and mangled who survive;No more we meet in grand review,But all the arts of freedom thrive.
Still glows the jewel in its shrine,Won where the James now tranquil rolls;Its wealth for all, the glory thine,O memory of heroic souls!
* * * * *
The fallen cause still waits,—Its bard has not come yet,His song—through one of to-morrow's gatesShall shine—but never set.
But when he comes—he'll sweepA harp with tears all stringed,And the very notes he strikes will weep,As they come, from his hand, woe-winged.
Ah! grand shall be his strain,And his songs shall fill all climes,And the Rebels shall rise and march againDown the lines of his glorious rhymes.
And through his verse shall gleamThe swords that flashed in vain,And the men who wore the gray shall seemTo be marshalling again.
But hush! between his wordsPeer faces sad and pale,And you hear the sound of broken chordsBeat through the poet's wail.
Through his verse the orphans cry—The terrible undertone!And the father's curse and the mother's sigh,And the desolate young wife's moan.
* * * * *
I sing, with a voice too lowTo be heard beyond to-day,In minor keys of my people's woe;And my songs pass away.
To-morrow hears them not—To-morrow belongs to fame:My songs—like the birds'—will be forgot,And forgotten shall be my name.
And yet who knows! betimesThe grandest songs depart,While the gentle, humble, and low-toned rhymesWill echo from heart to heart.
* * * * *
When falls the soldier braveDead—at the feet of wrong,—The poet sings, and guards his graveWith sentinels of song.
Songs, march! he gives command,Keep faithful watch and true;The living and dead of the Conquered LandHave now no guards save you.
Grave Ballads! mark ye well!Thrice holy is your trust!Go! halt! by the fields where warriors fell,Rest arms! and guard their dust.
List, Songs! your watch is long!The soldiers' guard was brief,Whilst right is right, and wrong is wrong,Ye may not seek relief.
Go! wearing the gray of grief!Go! watch o'er the Dead in Gray!Go guard the private and guard the chief,And sentinel their clay!
And the songs, in stately rhyme,And with softly sounding tread,Go forth, to watch for a time—a time,Where sleep the Deathless Dead.
And the songs, like funeral dirge,In music soft and low,Sing round the graves,—whilst not tears surgeFrom hearts that are homes of woe.
What though no sculptured shaftImmortalize each brave?What though no monument epitaphedBe built above each grave?
When marble wears away,And monuments are dust,—The songs that guard our soldiers' clayWill still fulfil their trust.
With lifted head, and steady tread,Like stars that guard the skies,Go watch each bed, where rest the dead,Brave Songs! with sleepless eyes.
* * * * *
[Sung on the occasion of decorating the graves of the Confederate dead, at Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S.C.]
Sleep sweetly in your humble graves,—Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause!Though yet no marble column cravesThe pilgrim here to pause,
In seeds of laurel in the earthThe blossom of your fame is blown,And somewhere, waiting for its birth,The shaft is in the stone!
Meanwhile, behalf the tardy yearsWhich keep in trust your storied tombs,Behold! your sisters bring their tears,And these memorial blooms.
Small tributes! but your shades will smileMore proudly on these wreaths to-day,Then when some cannon-moulded pileShall overlook this bay.
Stoop, angels, hither from the skies!There is no holier spot of groundThan where defeated valor lies,By mourning beauty crowned!
* * * * *
[The women of Columbus, Mississippi, strewed flowers alike on the graves of the Confederate and the National soldiers.]
By the flow of the inland river,Whence the fleets of iron have fled,Where the blades of the grave-grass quiverAsleep are the ranks of the dead;—Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment-day;—Under the one, the Blue;Under the other, the Gray.
These in the robing of glory,Those in the gloom of defeat,All with the battle-blood gory,In the dusk of eternity meet;—Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment-day;—Under the laurel, the Blue;Under the willow, the Gray.
From the silence of sorrowful hoursThe desolate mourners go,Lovingly laden with flowersAlike for the friend and the foe,—Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment-day;—Under the roses, the Blue;Under the lilies, the Gray.
So with an equal splendorThe morning sun-rays fall,With a touch, impartially tender,On the blossoms blooming for all;—Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment-day;—'Broidered with gold, the Blue;Mellowed with gold, the Gray.
So when the summer calleth,On forest and field of grainWith an equal murmur fallethThe cooling drip of the rain;—Under the sod and the dew.Waiting the judgment-day;—Wet with the rain, the Blue;Wet with the rain, the Gray.
Sadly, but not with upbraiding,The generous deed was done;In the storm of the years that are fading,No braver battle was won;—Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment-day;—Under the blossoms, the Blue;Under the garlands, the Gray.
No more shall the war-cry sever,Or the winding rivers be red;They banish our anger foreverWhen they laurel the graves of our dead!Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment-day;—Love and tears for the Blue,Tears and love for the Gray.
* * * * *
[1876.]
Our fathers' God! from out whose handThe centuries fall like grains of sand,We meet to-day, united, free,And loyal to our land and Thee,To thank Thee for the era done,And trust Thee for the opening one.
Here, where of old, by Thy design,The fathers spake that word of ThineWhose echo is the glad refrainOf rended bolt and falling chain,To grace our festal time, from allThe zones of earth our guests we call.
Be with us while the New World greetsThe Old World thronging all its streets,Unveiling all the triumphs wonBy art or toil beneath the sun;And unto common good ordainThis rivalship of hand and brain.
Thou, who hast here in concord furledThe war flags of a gathered world,Beneath our Western skies fulfilThe Orient's mission of good-will,And, freighted with love's Golden Fleece,Send back its Argonauts of peace.
For art and labor met in truce,For beauty made the bride of use,We thank Thee; but, withal, we craveThe austere virtues strong to save,The honor proof to place or gold,The manhood never bought nor sold!
Oh make Thou us, through centuries long,In peace secure, in justice strong;Around our gift of freedom drawThe safeguards of thy righteous law:And, cast in some diviner mould,Let the new cycle shame the old!
* * * * *
[Footnote A: Copyright 1904 by Robert Allan Reid.]
[1904.]
O Thou, whose glorious orbs on highEngird the earth with splendor round,From out Thy secret place draw nighThe courts and temples of this ground;Eternal Light,Fill with Thy mightThese domes that in Thy purpose grew,And lift a nation's heart anew!
Illumine Thou each pathway here,To show the marvels God hath wroughtSince first Thy people's chief and seerLooked up with that prophetic thought,Bade Time unrollThe fateful scroll,And empire unto Freedom gaveFrom cloudland height to tropic wave.
Poured through the gateways of the NorthThy mighty rivers join their tide,And on the wings of morn sent forthTheir mists the far-off peaks divide.By Thee unsealed,The mountains yieldOres that the wealth of Ophir shame,And gems enwrought of seven-hued flame.
Lo, through what years the soil hath lain,At Thine own time to give increase—The greater and the lesser grain,The ripening boll, the myriad fleece!Thy creatures grazeAppointed ways;League after league across the landThe ceaseless herds obey Thy hand.
Thou, whose high archways shine most clearAbove the plenteous western plain,Thine ancient tribes from round the sphereTo breathe its quickening air are fain;And smiles the sunTo see made oneTheir brood throughout Earth's greenest space,Land of the new and lordlier race!
[The foregoing was the official hymn of the Louisiana Purchase Exposition at St. Louis in 1904. It was written upon invitation of the Exposition authorities, and was sung at the opening of the Fair by a chorus of five hundred voices, to music written for it, also upon official invitation, by Professor John K. Paine, of Harvard University. It fitly concludes the poems of Peace, in this volume of "National Spirit."]
End of Project Gutenberg's The World's Best Poetry, Volume 8, by Bliss Carman